Here is the Place where I love Maysilee
by wordswithwind
Summary: "If the world hates me, I will hate the world." -Him "We have to try." -Her. This is the story of the Fiftieth Hunger Games; a story where two people try to reach out to each other but are constantly met with a barrier. He doesn't know how to be kind. She has a secret she can't share with him, and it's burning her up inside. Hunger Games, Rated T, Haymitch and Maysilee
1. Prologue

here is the place where i love maysilee by wordswithwind

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**Prologue**

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I HAVE THOUGHT about that day so many times. If I concentrate hard enough, I can make myself believe that I was there. That I saw it.

It looked something like this: Bright, artificial lights. Searing sharpness in every person's chest. Crying. Hugs. Watery smiles. If I close my eyes, I can imagine my mother stepping inside the hovercraft, watching as her home grew rapidly smaller beneath her, blurred by her tears.

It's my secret.

It has lived with me my whole life. It is not a petty secret. It's not the type of secret girls whisper to each other at school, silly secrets about boys and clothes, because this secret will not just embarrass me.

It will kill me.

It's like a bomb ticking inside my chest, marking down the seconds. And it's only a matter of time before it blows up.

You want the truth?

The truth is, my secret could destroy Panem.


	2. Deep in the Meadow

here is the place where i love maysilee by wordswithwind

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**Deep in the meadow**

_Under the willow_

_A bed of grass_

_A soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head_

_And close your sleepy eyes_

_When again it's morning the sun will rise_

_Here it's safe_

_Here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet_

_And tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place_

_Where I love you_

-Suzanne Collins, "Deep in the Meadow", The Hunger Games

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**1) DEEP IN THE MEADOW**

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WHEN I WAKE on reaping day, I am trembling and crying.

In an instant, my mother is by my side. "What's wrong?" she asks, gently stroking my hair. The early morning light is beginning to filter in through the glass windows, highlighting our little bedroom and kitchen. Downstairs, our candy shop is open, bright and early, and I hear the murmur of customers and the creak of their footsteps on the floor. I hear a bird sing from out in the forest; its voice high and clear. My canary, Lelanabelle, responds with unashamed joy. There are things of beauty in District Twelve, if I make myself look hard enough.

I rub my arms, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Usually I am very strong, but my nightmares have shaken me more badly than I'd like to admit. I compose myself before admitting softly, "I dreamed I was reaped."

"Oh, honey," my mother's voice is soft and sad as she sits beside me. She rubs my back in silence while the morning light grows slowly in the room. I relax into her touch.

"Maybe I was wrong." My mother's voice is so soft I barely hear it. "There's nothing we can do." She shakes her head. "Democracy? I fear it was a schoolgirl's dream for me."

I turn quickly to her and latch onto her hand. "No!" I cry out. She jerks her head up, her eyes bewildered. Lowering my voice, I swiftly add, "Remember the pin." I touch a finger to it; I don't even have to look-I know exactly where it lies on my breast.

She nods. Her blond hair is tied back into a messy bun, a testimony to the fact that she is distracted with worries for the reaping. Usually she plaits it beautifully. Maybe she will later; we are supposed to dress up for the reaping. When she glances at me, I see doubt in her sea-green eyes. An icy arrow pierces my heart. Does she not believe? Has she given up all hope? I squeeze her hand. "We have to try," I say.

She gives a weak smile. "You're brave, Little May," she whispers, then adds, "Your sister says the reaping is starting earlier this year because there are more tributes to pick. You better get dressed as quickly as you can."

I hardly hear her because I am lost in thought. They always told us to show tiny bits of rebellion wherever you could. And I have tried. But it hasn't done anything, as far as I can see, except maybe with that one kid who seems more intelligent and rebellious than most. I have been trying to feed him bits of truth about the Capitol, how horrible they really are. But I'm not sure how much he understands. While these dismal thoughts flit through my mind I begin to methodically make my bed, smoothing the sheets and fluffing the pillow. When I finish, I touch my pin for luck. Looking down at it, glimmering in the sun of a hopeless world, I can breathe again, breathe a calm, normal breath instead of screaming profanities at the Capitol like I crave to do every moment of my waking life. For now, wearing it is the only type of rebellion I can show.

At one, we all walk down to the square. It's all dressed up for reaping day, with banners and balloons and propaganda posters. My friend Rosianna silently walks up to me and we link arms. My twin sister, Marsilee, joins our human chain. We walk forward, proud and confident and grim, not saying a word, but finding strength in each other. We will need it for the ordeal to come.

As we draw nearer to the square, the people from all over the district confluence and we find ourselves smashed together, pressed against the people in front of us and behind us. There is a lot of pushing and shoving and low cursing, but besides that we are deadly silent, our mouths immobile from fear. Somehow, even through the pushing and shoving that occurs, we manage to stay linked together. We push towards the back of the roped areas, one that is labeled THIRTEEN on a large sheet of paper. Seam people stare at it, fascinated. You don't often see paper around here. There are no books; I doubt anyone in Twelve even know they exist. School is a mixture of lectures on the glory of Panem and coal, since that is our main industry. In other words: school is worthless.

I am distracted from my thoughts by a jab in the shoulder. My sister Marsilee is grinning playfully at me. She murmurs, "If you get picked I'll go up for you-they probably won't know the difference, we both look so alike!"

I roll my eyes and whisper back, "If you ever volunteer for me, I will personally kick you off the stage and tell you to get lost and go look for that Undersee kid."

She has the good sense to blush as she replies, "Stop saying that; I don't even _like_ him."

I pinch her cheeks. "Look at that blush!" I exclaim gleefully. She blushes even harder and I laugh. A few people turn to look at us in disbelief.

I stare at them back, unfazed. For me, it is easier to laugh, to jest. It is better than crying, like Kurt Vonnegut used to say. Of course, people here know nothing about him.

When the history of Panem is finally read out, the mayor reads aloud the past victors. Correction: Victor. Only one. Monica Drake stands and acknowledges herself before sitting down. She has a white and pasty face, Capitol highlights only barely disguises the greyness of her hair. I know she is old, but she seems strong. A few people clap and she gives a wry smile.

Then they start calling the names. An absurd looking women with a polka-dotted leopard dress and matching high heels stands by the girl's bowl. She looks over us all with a level, calculating gaze. This and the fact that she looks like a predatory cat makes me feel suddenly more vulnerable than usual. She reaches in, swishes our lives around carelessly, and snaps her arm back out, a shiny white slip in her hand.

The square is so quiet and tense you could hear a pin drop.

"Tempest Sanuve."

There is a collective sigh of relief while Tempest makes her way onto the stage. I realize I've been holding my breath and let it out. Good, it wasn't me. The minute I think this I hate myself and focus on feeling sorry for the Seam girl in front of me. She is crying quietly but no one in the crowd is wailing or screaming for her. Did no one love her? I am overcome by pity at the thought.

"And now for our next girl tribute," the freaky lady announces.

I stand straighter and out of the corner of my eye I see Rosianna stiffen. I follow the line of her gaze and see that she is looking at the back of a young, tall man from the Seam. Of course-Everdeen. He probably has his name entered in many more times for tesserae. I reach down and caress Rosianna's hand. She looks at me gratefully.

I stare back into the cool, green depths of her eyes. They are a portal to the many laughs and conversations we have had together. I hold onto them like a lifesaver.

Suddenly her eyes go wild and her grip on me is tight. She thrusts her arms around me in a bone-breaking hug. I glance at Marsilee. Her eyes are wet and she cries, "No!" Her voice breaks on the word.

I stand there, bewildered, as I look around and tons of pairs of eyes are focused on me. I don't need an answer. I know.

I firmly unclasp Rosianna's hands from around my waist and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. Swiftly directing my attentions to Marsilee I quickly hug her. Her body shakes underneath mine. Turning on my heel, I walk purposefully through the crowd. People fall back as I walk, as if I have some disease they might catch. I glare at them and to my relief a few quail underneath my gaze.

I mount the stage and stand beside the freaky lady and Tempest. My face is expressionless, like a TV turned off. You can't watch the emotions that tumble inside me, but they are there. For something like this, you need time to fully absorb the magnitude of your situation.

I am going to be a murderer.

I am going to be murdered.

I clench my fists and dig my nails on my right hand into my left so hard they leave imprints.

The announcer lady clip-clops to the other bowl, the boy's bowl. With the same deftness and carelessness as before she draws a slip from the bowl.

"Kerwin Eluhaunt."

A small, pale-looking kid mounts the stage. He has the typical dark hair and eyes of the Seam. His eyes are hopeless and desperate. Despite my current situation, I can't help feeling a pang in my heart for him. Seam people have hard lives. Marsilee would call me Captain Obvious, but it's true.

I'm distracted for a moment while I think this, but it doesn't escape my attention that the lady called "Haymitch Abernathy" and no one has come up. After a few moments of silence the crowd is in a flurry of whispers and movement.

"Quiet!" The mayor shouts. He looks stressed, with deep grooves underneath his eyes. Did he believe in the ideals of the Capitol? I had thought about it often before, with no definite answer. "Is anyone here his guardian or family?"

A smallish, dark woman cut her way swiftly through the crowd with another boy behind her. When she reaches the stage, she apologizes profusely. "I'm so sorry. I told him to be back for the start of the reaping. I forgot to remind him that it started earlier on account of...um...the Quarter Quell."

"Where is he now?"

The woman casts an anxious look at her son before replying, "In the forest."

"Beyond the fence?"

The woman nods nervously. "Correct, sir."

"Right, then." The mayor nods at two peacekeepers stationed below the stage. "Please retrieve Abernathy, Haymitch for us at once." The peacekeepers, eerily inhuman in their identical white uniforms, head out to the meadow. Straining my eyes, I try to see the forest, but the early morning mist blocks it from view. I want to see him, as I once saw him a while ago.

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_It was early morning. I was bringing food to a pregnant friend of my mother's. Her house was in the Seam because, although of Merchant parents, she had married a miner._

_I was struck with the poverty of an area so near the privileged place I called home. Children with sallow faces moaned intelligible begging murmurs as I walked past. I had a sudden urge to hide my pin, bright and gold, not a sign of defiance to these people but instead a source of food and wealth._

_I felt sick._

_But then I saw the meadow._

_It was broad and long with high grasses and brambles. Even as I gazed at it I felt sure we weren't supposed to go on it. Far in the distance, I could see the fence, electrified 24 hours a day-or so everyone thought. I knew better, however. Just as I was about to wistfully turn away, I heard some voices, fair and clear. I turned my head towards them._

_A boy was walking swiftly towards the fence, ignoring the plaintive little-child cries behind him._

"_Haymitchy!" The voice called._

_The boy's voice was gruff as he continued towards the forest. "Don't call me that."_

"_Why not?" The source of the voice I could now see, a little girl that barely reached the boy's knee, maybe five years old. She tugged on his tattered knickerbockers._

"_Leave me alone, B."_

"_Oooh, Mitchy is snippy!" she exclaims._

_The boy halts his trek towards the fence and puts his fist towards his forehead in a gesture of despair. "Stop it, Berria, or else-" He begins._

_She doesn't let him speak more, blabbering on unceasingly. "Are you going into the forest? Can I come with you? Is the fence buzzing? Are you going to catch anything? Are there berries? Please can I come, please?"_

"_No." The boy's voice is flat and unfeeling._

_This doesn't seem to discourage Berria at all. "Let's play ring-around the posy."_

"_Isn't it supposed to be the rosy-oh!" Cut off in the middle of his sentence, Berria grabs the boy's hand and they go twirling through the wildflowers, around and around in dizzy circles. Berria is laughing and to my surprise, when they land, the boy is smiling too._

"_Wasn't that fun, Mitchy?"_

_For once the boy doesn't correct her. "Yeah, that was fun," he agrees, standing up and brushing himself off._

"_Can we do it again?"_

"_Maybe."_

_I stand up and watch the two move slowly away from me, away from me, until they are only specks…_

_deep in the meadow._

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Starting from my reverie, I see two peacekeepers haul a dark, grim-faced boy up the steps. Seeing his dark scowl, it is hard to believe the happy grin from my memories was real and not just a dream. He wrenches free from them, a sudden smirk playing around his lips. A question is in his eyes; I realize no one has told him.

The mayor gestures to him. The boy stands by his side, straight, tall, and with a touch of defiance. I can't help smiling a bit. Not many could do what he is doing.

"Our second boy tribute: Haymitch Abernathy."

For some reason Haymitch gives a tiny shrug and roll of the eyes, as if being a tribute in an arena of forty-eight couldn't possibly matter. I wonder about the sanity of a person who appears to treat their own life with such indifference. I guess I'll find out.

During the Treaty of Treason I take the opportunity to study him. Dark hair falls into his grey Seam eyes; his body is strong but small. He stares up at the sky with a half-smile that is both perplexing and maddening, as if he had a secret he doesn't want to share with any of us.

The mayor's voice, cracked from overuse and possibly emotion, orders us to shake hands with a fellow tribute. When I shake Haymitch's hand he grips it with unnecessary force. I flinch. He looks at me impassively.

I massage my hand all the way to the Justice Building. I am confused about a lot of things, but I know one thing for certain-if I don't team up with Haymitch as my ally, I'll probably be killed.


	3. Under the Willow

here is the place where i love maysilee by wordswithwind

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_Deep in the meadow_

**Under the willow**

_A bed of grass_

_A soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head_

_And close your sleepy eyes_

_When again it's morning the sun will rise_

_Here it's safe_

_Here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet_

_And tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place_

_Where I love you_

-Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games

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**2) Under the Willow**

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THERE WAS A lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was young.

It was about quiet meadows, green grass, and flowers. Something about flowers protecting you. And when I was nine, listening to it for probably the millionth time as she sang me to sleep hungry, I lost my patience. "There are plenty of flowers in District Twelve, but they sure don't guard you or protect you from anything," I pointed out. "We still go to bed every night hungry. The only thing they're good for is decorating your hair on reaping day." I could tell my words hurt my mother. She stopped singing and sat there, silent, until I cracked open an eyelid and stared at her, wanting her to go away, leave me be. "Mom," I said. "Face it. It's just a song. Our dreams will never come true."

Her eyes filled with tears. "I know that, honey. I know it's just a song. But it gives me hope, nonetheless, that I can protect my baby from the harms of the world. And the last part is true, I will always love you." She reached forward and gripped my hand. "Just hold onto your hope, Haymitch, honey, and it will do you a Panem of good."

I turned my face away. I couldn't be like my mother, believing in the good where none exists. I was always continually disappointed. My life was a dark cave without end; I was a miner crushed in the unseeing darkness, but the Capitol always watched. I saw the Capitol in my teacher at school, in my poverty, in the propaganda clips they showed on the screens every week in the square, on the reaping every year. The years go by so fast, too fast. We feel relief after each reaping, that no one we knew was picked. And then the mounting dread swallows us again, growing increasingly until that day, when it reaches its peak. By the time I was twelve I realized the danger of caring about anyone, lest they be taken from you forever. School the following day of the reaping is torture, hearing the kids cry in their seats, the teacher always ignoring the damaged spirit that resides in the classroom, the only barely contained anger, fear, and distress. During that time rebellious thoughts swarmed in my brain and I murmured them in the woods, but by the time I was thirteen I realized rebellion was a dream, and dreams were a false hope that would never be made true.

Now I live in a nightmare, a nightmare that will never cease. Others pretend happiness, laughing on a few good days because they prefer to be falsely happy rather than truly sad. I never do. I find humor in sarcasm; I mock everything and everyone, because the world will never be good. Sometimes I laugh at the hopeless and unfairness of our situation. Sometimes I find delight that people in the Capitol are obese and we are bone thin and close to starvation. If the world hates me, I will hate the world. If fortune mocks me, so will I mock fortune, and everything it sends my way.

Which is why I roll my eyes and shrug when I learn I am a tribute in the Fiftieth Hunger Games. _Thanks, Fortune _I think. _Just my luck._ I am beyond caring, for the most part. But there are still people I love, and who love me. They are my tiny light in the deep dark of the underground cave which is my life.

My mother. And Jeye, my brother.

I search for them now in the crowd, trying not to seem urgent or desperate, telling myself they will be there to tell me goodbye at the Justice Building. I ignore the faces of the crowd as they stare at me with renewed interest, possibly because I am soon to be a carcass on a field somewhere far away. It's annoying how becoming a tribute has made me, a nobody, somebody. Everyone in District Twelve now knows my name.

White uniforms surround me. I squint my eyes and look at their blinding white in the greyness of our district, and I try to find a word in my head that describes how they look. _Like angels _I think suddenly. This thought is so absurd that I immediately guffaw. One of the "angels" suspecting foul play on my part, turns and pushes me closer to the center of the company, so that I'm walking next to the Seam girl who's crying. The white brigade presses so close on all sides that I find that the her tears are landing on my arm. Irritated, I push forward until I'm walking next to the merchant girl. She glances at me warily and critically for a moment, as if trying to figure me out. Her eyes are a deep, rare blue, like a sultry summer day, holding countless, nameless things. I lean into them, trying to see the secrets that beg to be told floating just under the surface. I perceive the glow of life inside them, brimming with intelligence. They are bright, defiant, and impenetrable-like a District Twelve winter, though somehow warmer. As quickly as it came, the moment is gone; she is turning her head. As she moves, the sun catches on something on her dress and makes it glitter. It flashes in front of my vision-a bright, gold pin with a bird in the center-and triggers a memory.

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_I was eleven. It was a grey District Twelve day, and I was coming out of the school building. I was depressed; I was hungry. A typical day in my early adolescent life._

_I rounded the corner and came upon the dusty schoolyard lot. The old basketball hoop stood in the center of some cracked pavement. The netting around it had disappeared long ago. Turning, I saw a couple dark figures on the far side of the court near a decaying wood bench. Their loud voices echoed against the concrete walls of the school._

"_Where did you get that?" One demanded. Tall, big and dark, he was easily identified as a Seam teen, perhaps eighteen years old._

"_A little tyke like you doesn't need such a precious thing all to herself," another cooed. _

"_Let's take it."_

"_Wait a moment, I want to play with her a bit first…"_

_Approaching, I saw that the teenage boys were leaning over something-or someone. I cautiously crept up behind them, leaning over their dark heads to see their object of curiosity._

_It was a small girl, maybe seven years old. Her bright, blond hair easily confirmed her as a merchant's child. I gritted my teeth. I loathed anyone of such status. They were rich, they ate well, they rarely got picked for the Hunger Games. This one especially was of a higher sort, for she was wearing a bright golden pin on her beautifully embroidered coat. It was this thing that the two bullies were intent upon. One reached forward and grabbed the girl's chin with rough, callused fingers._

"_Well, well honey. Looks like your pretty-pretty pin is yours no longer."_

_The girl's eyes were wide with fear, but her small face was calm, composed, and determined. She looked mature, much older for her small age. All of a sudden my anger at her wealthiness evaporated. _That isn't her fault, _I found myself thinking._

"_Wait." My mouth seemed to open without my consent. The two boys turned to look at me._

"_Wait? Why wait? Look at that pin! You look pretty thin yourself, kid. Think of all the bread that could buy! Months and months of meals! Bet you want a piece of that, don't you?"_

_I stared at the kid blankly. He was trying to provoke me, but I wasn't going to let that happen. "Merry Christmas," I said in a monotone. This is a joke; only people in the Capitol celebrate that, whatever it is. "I think you found a pin made of pure golden plastic. Amazing! This will buy you exactly zero meals. Nobody even likes pins anyway. What good are they for? Stupid child toy." I rolled my eyes to emphasize. "Bullying a seven-year-old girl is pathetic, anyways. Just think-what if your friends saw you? What would they say?"_

_Maybe I had overdone it, but at least both boys were looking dubious. "Maybe not, Koler," the bigger one said, getting up._

"_Hey, don't you want the pin?" The other boy said, but his voice trailed off and looking embarrassed he followed his crony. _

_I was left standing over the girl. She got up and gave me a weak smile. _

_I averted my eyes and kicked a bit of gravel with vehemence. It sailed over the rotting bench and pinged against the concrete lot. For a moment there was silence._

"_You're stupid. Wearing that pin. Take it off," I said gruffly. Turning my back, I began to make my retreat._

"_Wait!" Her thin voice sounded shrill in the crisp, unforgiving air. I looked back to her despite myself. "I'm not seven, you know," she said. "I'm eight."_

_I stared at her._

"_Well, I am!" She looked pleased with herself for making me speechless._

"_Nice job," I said, eyebrows raised and smirk perfectly attached. "Only four more years to go and you'll land yourself a spot in the Hunger should be fun." It was cruel, cruel even for me, and so I fled without a backward glance._

_The next day when I saw her, she wasn't wearing the pin._

* * *

But she was now.

I stare at the pin, and wonder where she got it. I know it's made of real gold, despite what I said so long ago to those bullies. I am about to say something when we are led into the Justice Building and a heavy dark envelops us. A peacekeeper grabs me by the arm and hauls me off to the last room at the end of a long hallway, where I am left alone to contemplate my coming death.

Fantastic.

I hope that when I die I die showing my hate for the Capitol. I hope I die in a way that will make people remember me not as a reminder for the Dark Days, but as a reminder that there are better days to come, even if I don't believe in them myself. But I'm sure that is the way everyone wants to die. Most likely I will die a tragic, bloody death that will make my wraith self shake his head in pity, the Capitol gloat, and the districts sink deeper into depression.

My entire life will be spent to tell others that they are powerless.

And they are. But I don't want to be the one to tell them that. I don't want to die.

Suddenly I sit up straighter.

I don't want to die.

Is it possible…

I slump again, not daring to finish the thought. Of course not. An evil smile curls my lip. It's almost hilarious, thinking of myself flowing in riches…

Suddenly my smile is wiped again from my face. I'm bitter. My whole life has been a flip-flop of two emotions: Bitterness and indifference, bitterness and indifference. Whenever I can't make myself not care, bitterness and heartache consume me again, a kind of recurrent disease. I clench my fists and fight it back like maybe you would with a wave of nausea.

Dimly, I hear someone come in. I raise my head to meet his/her eyes with a cold, hateful stare, but when the moment comes, I can immediately feel all the hostility in them draining away. The moment I see the dark grey of his eyes the sarcasm in me dries up. Kind of. I still say, "It's a lovely day, isn't it?", but I don't get a response. He, usually so cordial, cuts me off.

"Haymitch, what are your strengths?"

I sit there, taken aback, trying to formulate a coherent response to his abrupt and startling question.

He sighs, evidently giving up on me. "You aren't strong. You aren't likable. You're not kind." He ticks off on his fingers, looking up from his hands to me with raised eyebrows.

I mimic his tone of voice. "I _am _handsome. I _am _charming-when I want to be. I _am _intelligent."

"There you go," he smiles like a proud grandparent, which he almost is. He's certainly old enough to be one, with his long grey hair curling around his sunburned cheeks. He is one of the people I am closest to, which is saying something, since not many people can claim that position, or would want to. I met him hunting in the forest, and that is where he taught me much of what I now know about hunting and trapping and surviving after my father quit teaching me, being never sober long enough to make the trip into the surrounding forest (Mental note: Never get drunk).

* * *

_The day I met him, I had called out in surprise. "Hey, Old Man, what's your name?"_

_He had responded with a slight grin. "You can call me Old Man. That's basically all I am nowadays, anyways."_

* * *

_One day, we were hunting farther in than normal. We heard a loud sucking sound. The branches on the trees around us began to shake. Leaves tore from the trees and were hurled into the air. I was only nine. I felt like I was in a vacuum and it was sucking me in. I was scared._

_Old Man took my arm. "Let's get under here," he said, and quickly pulled me under a willow tree near a small, stagnant pond where we had just been catching fish. We crouched together, and watched._

_A hovercraft came into view, bullying the trees around it to move back so it could get through to the shady forest floor. The noise was deafening. I felt as though my eardrums would explode, even though it only lasted a few seconds. When it was finally hovering only a few feet from the ground, a hatch opened. I held my breath. A slender figure came out, carrying a blue backpack. The hovercraft whirred, gaining height and disappearing as it soared above the forest canopy. The figure took off and ran frantically, bag banging against its back. As it neared our hiding spot, I saw the figure was feminine._

"_Who's that?" I said, my eyes wide._

_Old Man clapped a hand over my mouth. "Don't speak," he said. "It's an escapee. Possibly a traitor."_

_I held my breath, watching the figure melt into the surrounding forest, questions exploding in my brain. A traitor? Against who? The Capitol?_

_That was a weird day, that day…_

_under the willow_

* * *

I return to reality as he grips my shoulders, gazing deeply into my eyes, suddenly serious. "You're dangerous, Haymitch," he tells me. "You have intellect, a thing that is sadly wanting in this stupid world. You could win. I'm confident," he reaffirmed, "That you could win if you used your head."

I study him in silence. "Old Man, you really mean that, don't you?"

"Yes I do," he says softly.

"Will you be watching?"

"Yes."

I am not one to beg, but I can't help adding, in an undertone, "Promise?"

"Promise."

"Goodbye, then. Take care. Don't die." An evil smile curls my lip. As if _he_ needs to worry about dying a horrible, bloody death.

But he responds, perfectly serious.

"Don't _you_ die, Haymitch."

My throat closes up and I can't say anything in return. I am insanely relieved when the peacekeepers come in to take him away.

I wait for my family, my hope beginning to die in my chest when my brother finally makes his appearance. He stands still and strong, and I am proud of him for being so brave unlike the rest of our District. He comes up to me and I slap him on the back, like I do when he does something that's worth commending him for. He smiles wanly, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"You'll do it, Haymitch," he says in a rounded, clear voice.

I don't have to ask him what he means. I nod my head and say, "So will you."

He looks confused. "What?"

"You'll take care of mom for me."

His expression is suddenly panic-stricken. He shakes his head.

"Jeye?" I say. "Jeye! What's wrong?"

He only shakes his head again. Sad, mournful eyes shake me up inside. Something _very _bad has happened. And he won't tell me what. Instead, he slips a limp, yellow doohickey into my nerveless hand. I look down at it. It's a flower. A daisy.

"What?" My voice has sarcastic incredulity embedded all over it.

"It's not from me," Jeye says, guessing my thoughts. "It's from that little girl that you like. What's her name? Berria."

"I don't like her. She sounds like an angry squirrel, always chittering."

"You smile when you're with her. You let her climb all over you and you play games with her. You let her call you Mitchy." A faint smile appears on his pale complexion. "Don't try and tell me you don't like her at least a little bit."

"I tolerate her," I say shortly, but from his satisfied smile I glean that he is not convinced by my disinterested answer. And he's right. She's a weak spot, no matter how much I detest it; I can't help it. But I can't afford to be weak now. I throw the daisy down and crush it with my foot. My brother's smile fades. "Haymitch?"

I don't look up from grinding my foot into the daisy's pasty greenish carcass. "What, dear brother."

He doesn't bother with the customary roll of the eyes. "Haymitch, I wanted you to keep that daisy, as a reminder." He waits for me to respond.

"A reminder for what?" I finally say.

"So that when you start killing people you can remember that you have a softer side."

"Softness is weakness, Jeye."

"Not always." His eyes are pleading.

I stare at him, trying to understand, to comprehend, his words. The Hunger Games does not allow the possibility of not killing. Even Jeye knows this. It's kill or be killed. You have no choice.

So I take him by the shoulders and squeeze out the worst lie in my lie-making career. "I'll do my best," I say. That is all I can give him.

He slaps me on the back. "You'll do it, Haymitch," he repeats. "May the odds-"

I know the rest. "Be never in my favor," I finish solemnly.

At that, my brother laughs. For once, a genuine smile comes naturally to me, and when my brother leaves the room, I'm still half-smiling.


	4. A Bed of Grass

here is the place where i love maysilee by wordswithwind

* * *

_Deep in the meadow_

_Under the willow_

**A bed of grass**

_A soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head_

_And close your sleepy eyes_

_When again it's morning the sun will rise_

_Here it's safe_

_Here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet_

_And tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place_

_Where I love you_

-Suzanne Collins, "Deep in the Meadow" The Hunger Games

* * *

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**3) A BED OF GRASS**

* * *

I'M STILL NUMB when I enter the shadowy dark of the Justice Building. Not only the thought of the impending kills I will have to make has made me feel this way: It was also Haymitch's eyes. So dark, so deep. I fall into a memory as quickly and effortlessly as I fell into them.

* * *

_I saw him._

_In class, he sat as still and stiff as a cat tensed before a kill. When I caught his eyes, they were bright, brown, and deadly. They flicked to mine and away before I even knew they were there. He seemed somehow aloof to the rest of us. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his words were arrows, piercing us all. His sentences were blunt, precise, peeling back layers and layers of Capitol lies, making us all feel exposed, weak, as we learnt the truth._

_He even said things that I didn't know, and that surprised me and intrigued me, for I know more about the Capitol's devilry than most District Twelve citizens. They were ignorant; they were sadly misinformed. All but him._

_The teacher was standing in the front of the classroom. It was the weekly lecture on the history of Panem, the only class which contained a medley of different age groups. Right now she prattled on, using long-winded explanations and fancy words to dress up the fact of the Capitol's diabolical nature. Propaganda, propaganda, propaganda. I heard the word "Jabberjays" and immediately clocked out. Just a bunch of nonsense, probably. I studied her to amuse myself. Her smile was plastered on; her enthusiasm was a show. I swallowed the bile that had risen at the back of my throat and flattened my hands on the desk. Looking out the window, I judged that it was roughly eleven in the morning according to the sun's rays. Just thirty more minutes…_

_Suddenly in the midst of the teacher's dull monotone a harsh voice broke in. "Jabberjays don't exist," it said clearly. "But mockingjays do."_

_The teacher's head whipped around to face the person who had spoken. It was him._

_Her tone was forcibly mild. "I believe you are talking about the mockingbird? Yes, you are quite right, there are many of them in District Twelve. One of the most widely spread bird species, in fact." She gave a great smile and continued. "Jabberjays, however, disappeared right after being released into the wild. Through the Capitol's great cunning and intelligence, they created the birds to keep us all safe from terrorists and rebels. When the birds no longer were of use and other, better systems of maintaining control were established, the Capitol decided to let the birds be released into the wild. They no longer exist, as Mr. Abernathy so correctly informed us."_

_The boy's expression was stormy, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. I could see his clenched fists from where I sat. The teacher spieled on and he gazed out the window, ignoring the propaganda._

"_Well, now," the teacher finally concluded. "You have that mining quiz, tomorrow, remember, and then the Annual Capitol Exam is also coming up." She looked around at us brightly, as if this was the best news in the world. "Make sure to study."_

_I mentally snorted. As if we had textbooks, or computers, or _anything _to study with._

_The boy's voice came out low and steady. "I don't think I'll study. I won't be working in the mines, anyway."_

"_All of us boys will be working in the mines," another kid said, looking at the boy with confusion._

"_Not all of us," the boy replied._

_It's was if he'd petrified us. We froze in our seats. The reaping._

_One of the older merchant boys recovered. "But why won't you be working in the mines? You don't know that you'll be picked for the reaping." Everyone was tense, staring at the boy._

_The boy's face was grim as he replied. "Yes, I do know. I'm going to volunteer." When no one replied, he gave a wry smile. "What's the use anyway? Of living, I mean? We're all going to die from a mining accident or coal dust in our lungs or starvation. So why not get living over with? I mean, even oblivion is better than pain. Endless pain. Unceasing pain." His eyes looked wild. I couldn't seem to stop staring at them._

_Everyone was immobile. Their eyes were scared, angry, confused. They glanced to the teacher, whose lips were pursed. Before she could have said anything I quickly said, "You're wrong."_

_His eyes focused on mine._

_He scowled._

"_Oblivion is not better than pain. And I, at least, am not going to die from starvation." I'd meant to protect him from the teacher's wrath, but instead I sounded like I was trying to reinforce the obvious fact that I was of merchant blood and he was not._

_His smile was contemptuous. "What do you know of pain? And thanks for informing us that you will not starve. I'm sure we all wanted to hear that."_

_This made a few faint smiles appear across the room. Several kids gave me smirks and raised eyebrows. I felt hit to the gut. I sat down and didn't raise my eyes from the floor._

_The teacher clapped her hands and beamed at all of us. "No need to be such a pessimist," she said gaily to the boy. "Everyone except Mr. Abernathy and Miss Donner may be dismissed."_

_Kids hurried from the classroom, averting their eyes. They were strangely more silent than usual. No one looked at him as he went over to the teacher._

_The teacher folded her manicured hands in her lap. Up close, I could see a small tattoo on the inside of her wrist which read: _May the Odds be EVER in your favor_. I resisted the urge to vomit over her freshly ironed dress._

"_Mr. Abernathy," she said. "Apologize to Miss Donner."_

_He turned to me, giving an exaggerated little bow. "Dear Missss Donnerrr, (he rolled his r's.) I _do _hope you'll forgive my im_perrr_tinence." _

"_I forgive you," I said in a monotone, struggling to keep my mouth in a straight line. The teacher nodded at me-I assumed I was supposed to leave. I turned on my heel and left before I saw the punishment that she'd laid out for him. _

_I waited outside the door, staring at clouded, brooding sky. When he came out, I grabbed him by his ragged sleeve._

_He turned to look at me, an annoyed expression on his face. When he saw it was me, his expression became bemused and angry. "What do you want?" he growled. He put a hand on my arm; it gripped like iron. He was sterner than steel and colder than the coldest District Twelve winter; his life was dark and he had no hope. I sympathized but more than anything I knew that he was dangerous, possibly even more dangerous than he himself realised._

"_You need to be more careful."_

_His eyes glittered-dark, bottomless pits in his head. "You think I'm going to listen to you?" I could clearly hear his unspoken end to the sentence: After what you said?_

"_You don't care about your own life," I said, narrowing my eyes. "The world needs you- more than you think." Changing my solemn mood to a lighthearted one, I gave him a quick grin. "But just between you and me, mockingjays are totally real." I reached into my pocket and showed him the glimmer of my pin._

_His eyes widened; I knew he remembered. _

_I thrusted my hand back into my pocket and set off down the dusty street at a brisk pace. I felt his eyes on my back._

* * *

I still feel his eyes on mine. I close my eyes and see them every time I've seen them: with mirth, with hopelessness, with humorless sarcasm. The first: an almost dark blue, wide, dreamy. The second: black, dark pits. The third: bright, black, narrowed. Hearing the creak of footsteps outside the room, I hastily open my eyes and automatically sit straighter in my chair, fiddling nervously with my blond braid. _I was just thinking about the color of Haymitch's eyes_ I think to myself sternly. _I must already be going crazy. _This unexpectedly brings a reluctant smile to my lips; I bite it back before my visitor can see it and start wondering about my sanity.

But I don't need to worry about what my visitor thinks of me: because she is Rosianna, and she has seen the worst and best of me already.

She comes and stands in front of me and looks at me, her jaw trembling and tears vibrating in her eyes. She whispers, "Maysilee, there's got to be a heaven."

I say, "Why do you say that?"

"Because." Tears dribble down her cheeks. "Because you deserve better than what you're getting."

"So do we all," I murmur. She falls into my arms and we clutch in a hug that says a trillion words for the longest time. Finally she steps out and slips something into my hand. "Maypop," she says softly.

"Did you just call me 'Maypop'?" I say with weak humor.

She gives a watery smile. "No, _that's_ called Maypop." She points to the dark green leaves she gave me. Her family runs an apothecary shop that makes remedies for people who can afford them. My family, being of the wealthier sort, often goes to her store. "It's for insomnia."

"Thanks," I say, and I mean it. She knows me well enough to predict the nightmares which will certainly ensue even before the beginning of the Games. With this herb, I'll be able to get some quality sleep, which will certainly help in the busy, stressful days ahead. "Where did you get it?"

"Bran Everdeen." A slight blush creeps into her cheeks.

I give a small, delighted laugh. "Of course you did."

I know Bran. He is the kindest, sweetest Seam boy that I know; I doubt you could find a more loving, open and playful person. He is always teasing but never mean, never sarcastic. And he has a crush on Katniss. I remember the day I got my canary, Lelanabelle, from him.

* * *

_Rosianna was in estactics. She'd told me about her friend Bran many times, but I had never seen him. After school one day she dragged me over to the entrance of the mines, her face glowing, just barely containing her excitement._

_We stood there, two Merchant girls, dreadfully out of place. The sagging shoulders of dejected-looking young men coming up from the mines were covered in coal dust and radiated hopeless fatigue. Several gave us dirty looks. I began to feel uncomfortable. Rosianna was anxiously scanning the crowds, biting her lip. Suddenly her face lit up._

_A miner was coming toward us. He was also dirty and grimy, but his shoulders were set firmly on his back and an easy smile was on his lips. Instantly, I had no doubts why Rosianna liked this man. Hope and happiness glowed from him like a luminous firefly in the dark._

"_Hey, Rosianna," he said, ruffling her hair. Rosianna beamed._

_He caught sight of me. "Who's this pretty young lady?"_

_I raised my eyebrows and replied, "Maysilee. I've heard a lot about you."_

"_And I you," he replies. "You seem like such a gentle girl. Would you like a pet, maybe?" He held up a cage with a small bird inside. "A canary," he explained. "We use them in the mines. When the air goes bad a canary is always the first to know. They warn us with their bird calls, so we can get out in time. Sometimes they die and we have to replace 'em, poor things."_

_Rosianna looked horrified. Bran quickly amended, "But this one's going to be alright. I took a liking for it, so I decided to save it. My mates weren't too happy; I promised to get them a mouse by tomorrow that we could use. Mice aren't as good, but there's certainly more of them around." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Anyway, I'm not sure if I'm up to feeding it, so are you game?" He looked at me. _

"_Are you sure you don't want it?" I asked Rosianna._

_She shook her head. "He already asked me."_

"_Okay, then." I tried to contain myself, but I was secretly hysterical. A canary! For my very own! From the knowing smile Rosianna gave me, she too guessed my ecstasy._

"_What are you going to name it?" Bran said with interest as he handed the cage over._

_The name sprung to my lips without effort. "Lelanabelle."_

"_Oh! That's pretty. Did you make it up or…"_

_I gave a shy grin. "It's my own special combination of "Leland" which means "grassy meadow" and "belle" which means "beautiful lady"."_

_Bran gave a great, hearty laugh. "Tough luck there, because this'un's at least, isa guy."_

_Rosianna's laugh poured like liquid sunshine into the air at my startled expression._

"_Well," I said at last, very firmly. "He's _still _going to be a belle."_

_Rosianna linked arms with me affectionately, still laughing, as Bran came and planted a jovial kiss on her cheek._

* * *

I can't help smiling at the memory as it sends an unexpected jet of warmth through me. It will be this that I will hold on to in the coming days to keep myself from falling apart. With chagrin, however, I realise something and the smile slides off my face.

"Rosianna," I say earnestly, my tone solemn. "You have to have Lelanabelle. I'm going to give him to you. He's a gift."

"You can't make me! He's yours! All yours! Alright?" Rosianna says this softly with surprising force. Her last word is hardly a question, although I knew it was supposed to be.

"My family won't want him. They'll probably give him back to the mines." A chill runs through me at the thought but I compose myself and press on. A canary is the least of my worries. Still, he was, no, _is _(I correct myself) one of my best friends and certainly the cutest and kindest bird I've ever seen. I try to make myself care for mockingjays more, remembering their long history and what they stand for, but something about my canary has lodged in my heart and won't let go. "Please take him, Rosianna. Please care for him for me."

"Just during the Games." Her voice has a ribbon of hysteria in it that she and I are both trying to ignore.

"Just during the Games," I affirm.

A peacekeeper appears at the door. "Um, just a minute left, girls." He looks more frightened then we are, and clumsily shuts the door.

"Must be a new recruit," Rosianna says. We both laugh uneasily.

"Oh, here's something," Rosianna murmurs after a moment of silence. Reaching into her bag, she draws out a small, leather-bound book. I accept it hesitantly and let it fall open.

"It has some plants in it," Rosianna explains, pointing at the pictures. "Under each picture's the name, its use, where to find it, when it comes in bloom. My mother and father have been working on it for a long time now. They're all for diseases and such, of course."

"What's this?" I had flipped to the back of the book, where someone had written in a scratchy, messy handwriting different from the clean flowing script that populated the rest of the book.

"Oh, that's Bran. He left some edible plants there. Sorry there isn't more. If there'd been more time-"

I stop her words with a gigantic hug. "No, Rosianna, it looks great!" I enthuse. The timid peacekeeper evidently spying a good parting time, orders Rosianna from the room as sternly as he can manage. Which isn't very stern. I study the book and curl into the green couch, laying my head on a light green pillow. I try to imagine I'm in a bed of grass, and it makes me smile.

My next visitors, my family, are perhaps the most emotional. Marsilee and I have done everything in our lives together and not experiencing what the other is experiencing is perhaps a whole new experience in itself to both of us. She cries and blabbers nonsense the entire time. My father gives me some candy from our store and my mother gives me a quilt and whispers to me that it came from "Before". We don't dare speak its name, even here, where we are given the illusion that we are alone. I hold on to it and breathe in its scent, telling myself it has come from a better place. When they are on the verge of leaving, the peacekeeper at the door, my mother apologizes.

"Honey, I'm sorry." Her voice breaks.

"For what, Mama?

"For coming here."

I'm silent. I don't know what to say. "Mama-"

She kisses me and murmurs. "Hush, now, forget my words. Just-just be my perfect little Ivy girl. Stay calm. Stay safe. I love you...you don't know how much I love you." She abruptly turns away; the door closes with finality.

I hold onto her nickname like a shiny silver bubble blown from her lips that we make sometimes using dish soap. I cradle it in my head. For as long as I can remember I've been called Ivy. Something about my green eyes and my height. My father jokes, "Well, when she was born, I wasn't too sure about her, but she grows on you like ivy."

I'm startled out of my thoughts by a noise at the door. I'm rather flustered when I see the small boy who stood next to Haymitch's mother when she told the mayor his whereabouts. It takes me a moment to place him. _He must be Haymitch's brother _I realise. He's small and dark, a miniature of Haymitch in almost every way but one. The bitterness is missing from his eyes and posture. He stands straight and his eyes are urgent.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Maysilee, you've got to team up with my brother. He's smart and resourceful, and I promise he'll protect you. Please."

I must have looked dubious because he continued, his voice at a new, frantic octave. "You've got to. I know he looks mean like he wants to kill you right away, but he's not like that. If you have any skill at all, share it with him and I promise he'll be your ally. Please, I'm prom-"

"Hey, calm down," I said disarmingly. "I was already planning on teaming up with him." I try to make my voice sound more confident than it is. The truth is I'm not too sure about Haymitch Abernathy.

To my relief the boy quits his ranting and smiles weakly at me. "Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Jeye Abernathy." He holds out a hand and I shake it. "I've been rude, I know, it's just-"

"Hey, man, don't stress yourself out. It's fine," I say. I bite my lip, though, because that may be the biggest lie I've told in my entire life.


	5. A Soft Green Pillow

here is the place where i love maysilee by wordswithwind

* * *

_Deep in the meadow_

_Under the willow_

_A bed of grass_

**A soft green pillow**

_Lay down your head_

_And close your sleepy eyes_

_When again it's morning the sun will rise_

_Here it's safe_

_Here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet_

_And tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place_

_Where I love you_

-Suzanne Collins, "Deep in the Meadow" The Hunger Games

* * *

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**4) A SOFT GREEN PILLOW**

* * *

THE SKY GLOWERS when I come out of the building and I glower back, my insane smile gone. I avoid looking at any of the other tributes, even the blond-haired one, who keeps intently staring at me out of the corner of her eye. It gets awkward, especially when we are all forced into the back seat of a car made only for two, and I'm pressed up unnessarily against her. I find myself inwardly cursing. I crane my neck away from her too blue-green eyes and find myself eye-to-eye with the crying girl again. Crap.

So I turn back and stare at the Merchant girl again. She raises her eyebrows. "Your brother came and told me to team up with you."

I am instantly on my guard. "Yeah? And why is that?"

"He told me you were smart and resourceful. But I knew that already." Suddenly her cheek flush, as if she'd said too much. "I-I mean, I knew that because you always get such good grades in school-"

"So you weren't referring to the fact that I poach in the woods? I felt sure the moment you said resourceful you were talking about that."

Her eyes dart up to mine, startled and afraid for a moment, the eyes of prey. But just as quickly her face becomes an inscrutable mask, blank, showing no emotion. I am surprised. I didn't know she was capable of concealing her feelings. _One point for her _I find myself unconsciously thinking.

"Well," she says forcibly lightly, "Since you brought it up...I _did_ always admire your trapping and knowledge of plants and such. Sometimes I would see you...or I would mostly hear about you, from Seam friends."

"Seam friends?" I am momentarily shocked speechless. Merchant people have _nothing _to do with the Seam. They detest us. But she has Seam friends…

"Yes." She seems pleased at surprising me. "Of course," here she sounds suspiciously casual, with a little tremor in her voice, "If you were willing to be allies...I'm a quick learner...you could probably teach me that stuff, and I could teach you-"

I stop her before she can finish with a punch across the jaw. Throughout the past words anger had sizzled and risen inside of me, a volcano unable to contain herself. What is she saying? Her be my ally? What in freaking Panem is she talking about? She is weak. I can see that. Unless I wanted my own personal, blond-haired green-eyed burden, I would _never _accept her as an ally because there is zero chance she would win. Zilch! I'm trembling with fury and her blood is smeared on my knuckles. I glance at her. She's taking a handkerchief out of her pocket and applying it to her chin. To my chagrin she whirls around to face me, trembling not with tears but anger. "Is _that_ the best you can do, Haymitch? God, my sister punches harder."

I want to retort but instantly a sheet of glass glides down from the ceiling and separates us from each other. I want to pound against it and shout but that would be undignified and I know it won't do anything. So instead I lean back and close my eyes, pretending not to care. I can feel two pairs of disapproving eyes settling on me.

"You're not supposed to fight other tributes before the arena," a masculine voice says. The other boy from our district. What was his name again? Kerri Haunted, or something like that. Well, he will certainly be haunted in the arena-by me. I will be his worst nightmare.

"Are you going to tattle?" I make my voice high and feminine, small girlish with sarcasm and contempt mixed in.

The boy responds, firm but with a quaver I can too distinctly hear, like a small child unsure of himself. "I will."

"Go ahead, then, for all I care."

"You'll get in real trouble for this!"

"Hmm."

I can feel him getting angry. He lunges over to me. Another glass pane slides down from the ceiling. I open my eyes and watch with a smirk as he sits down, crestfallen and embarrassed. I wish I could say to him, _Hey. _You _attacked _me. _Guess I'm going to have to tattle._

* * *

We reach the train station. Cameras are trained on us; I make sure to give them my most arrogant smile as we step out of the car. Cars frustrate me because I do not understand how they work. What makes them glide so effortlessly and quickly across the ground? If the car is puzzling, the train is even more of an enigma, for its speed is 250 miles an hour-so fast it will only take us a day to get to the Capitol. 250 miles an hour...I try to pretend I don't care, but c'mon, what in Panem makes it go that fast?

The moment I get on the train the Capitol escort, the one that looks like a cat, leads me to my room. Her name is Fuchsia Moonchild, a ridiculous name, of course. I can't help thinking that she's the one who picked my name and is therefore the one who is sending me to my death. Naturally, this would make things between us uncomfortable, but I navigate the waters with ease and compliment her on her dress. She simpers, pats me on the head, and calls me 'a darling'. Oh brother.

I enter the nicely furnished room and immediately see a stack of clear, thin boxes on the ground labeled with each of the Hunger Games, one through forty-nine. I don't know what they are, so I call Fuchsia. She is disbelieving-"You don't know what _movies _are?"-but gets me settled, and I begin to watch the fifth Hunger Games, which I know Monica Drake, our mentor, won. I want to know if she won by accident or by skill. I hope by skill-if not, her advice is worthless. Might as well tell us, "Good luck and stay alive," for all I care.

The movie starts off with the reaping, as usual. The districts flash by until Twelve, where I straighten in my seat when I see Monica reaped. She crying. _Uh-oh_ I think. Her training score is decent at least, with a five, but not really exceptional. Her interview is again, decent. She looks pretty enough, but does not wow the crowd one way or another. When Ceasar asks her what her forte or strongest point is, she responds with 'hiding'. Seriously? I almost stop watching right then but then the Hunger Games start, and I am taken with a huge surprise. Hiding is Monica forte, and boy is she good at it.

From the beginning of the Games til the end, she hides everywhere. In caves, under rocks, high in trees. She's got an eye for camouflage, blending her dark brown coat with a tree trunk, her green pants with the vegetation around her. She even tricks a fellow tribute into thinking she's near death by smothering herself in the red juice of a brightly-colored berry. By the time the tribute realizes he's been outwitted, she's far away from her last hiding place.

Even though hiding seems weak and cowardly to me, I have a grudging admiration for Monica. Without anyone suspecting her, without anyone thinking she is the one to watch out for, she is slowly but surely winning. At one point she picks a flower. After inspecting it carefully, she tells the audience it is death camas, tucking away in her pack for later.

Finally, it is almost the end of the Games, with only her and the boy from one left. They are invited to a feast. From shots between Monica and the boy I learn that the boy is very hungry, for a pack of mutts destroyed his food supply earlier in the Games. Monica is getting on well, but I can tell that her food is running out, mostly because the Gamemakers have removed most of the sources of food in the arena in order to manipulate its occupants into coming to the feast. Monica sets out to the Cornucopia. The moment the bag containing the food comes up, she stuffs the death camas inside, quickly making her escape.

The boy from District One comes. He takes the bag and runs away. Later that evening, a cannon booms. He ate the death camas, a poisonous plant. It killed him. The trumpets blow to announce Monica's victory and the movie ends.

I sit there for a moment, absorbing what I just watched. All in all, I think Monica was more lucky than anything else. Perhaps-I sit straighter at the idea-perhaps the Capitol _made _her win, because it needed a district twelve mentor. After all, the Capitol's the one with the power, not the tributes. It could very easily decide to make one win and the others lose even before the Games began. For some reason this considerably bothers me. I'm still trying to shake off that annoyed feeling when Fuchsia invites me in her demented bird-like voice to come to supper.

* * *

After supper I lean back and rub my belly. I think I ate about twenty pounds of mashed potatoes. I might throw up on the merchant girl sitting next to me. The idea pleases me, but I don't try. I want to hold onto this meal.

Everyone has been quiet, but now Monica clears her throat and we all jump. Tucking a thin strand of whitish hair behind her ear, she folds her arms and says, "Kerwin and Tempest, you may leave."

Kerwin looks like he's about to object, but he's too weak-minded and so closes his mouth, giving a murderous glare at me before he departs. Tempest really _is _a tempest-of tears, that is. She's still crying. Once her hiccuping sobs dwindle away a heavy silence remains.

Monica looks at both of us. "For the moment, I would like you two to describe yourselves, including any talents or weakness you may have. This way I will be sure exactly how to play you up to sponsors and what your strategy will be in the arena."

The merchant girl has a wrathful look on her face. Abruptly, she says, "You're not going to mentor them, are you?"

Monica is perfectly composed as she answers, "No, I'm not."

The girl grits her teeth and pounds her fists on the table. "But that's not fair!"

I stare at her. She surprises me all the time. This act of defiance is both foolish and stubborn, and it will get her nowhere. She should be glad that two opponents are being eliminated, especially in an arena of forty-seven other opponents. But no-she defends them. Wants them to have a chance. I place my head in my hands. How stupid _is _she?

Monica still keeps a calm demeanor and impassive face. "The Games are not fair, so I am forced to be unfair, too."

The merchant girl sucks in her breath. Saying the Games are not fair is the closest you can get to traitorous words. She's right, of course. But I wonder how she dares to say that in a Capitol train.

The merchant girl clenches her fists and says, "Alright" in a tight little voice.

"Alright, then." Monica turns to me, asking about my strengths. I list them off, boredly, listlessly. "...and I'm good at being a jerk, according to my drunk father."

The merchant girl folds her arms. From the look she gives me, I'm convinced she thinks I'm a jerk too.

Why does that thought make me sick?

"What about you?" Monica turns to the merchant girl. "Is there anything that you can do that would help you in the arena?"

The girl's mouth is rigid. She gives a stiff shake of the head.

I find my jaw unhinging; my mouth opens without me realizing it. "She can run. Really fast." Then, somehow, I find myself again. "For a girl, that is."

Her eyes meet mine across the table. They are an icy green, cool and fresh like sunlight on a pale forest leaf.

* * *

_We were crouched at the start, a jagged, dusty line in the dirt made with a stick. A dirty Seam kid stood a few steps away. "On your mark, get set...go!"_

_We ran. Our legs were encrusted with mud, the soles of our feet callused. Our arms pumped and the blood sang in our veins. For those of us strong enough to run, racing was freedom. The wind blowing. The adrenaline. It kept us alive._

_I raised my head. The two sticks, crammed upright in the ground, marked the finish. I dug in to my reservoir of energy. My strides lengthened. Soon it was only me and another runner, neck and neck. I didn't turn my head to see who it was, but I could feel his breaths. Steady, not panicked._

_We neared the finish. I caught a flash of gold at the corner of my vision. A single green eye. Icy green. Cool and fresh, like sunlight on a pale forest leaf. _

_A girl._

_A girl, neck and neck with me._

_A girl, who was going to beat me if I wasn't careful._

_I pushed forward, desperate. No _way_, was I going to let this girl beat me to the finish. I couldn't. Otherwise I'd never be able to race again. I'd be in disgrace._

_Dimly, however, as we neared the finish, I realized the girl had dropped back. Her breaths were no longer in my ear. The pounding of her feet, the sucking of the mud on her soles, had disappeared. I crossed, breathless and angry. The dirty Seam kid slapped my back. "Good job," he said._

_But I wasn't fooled._

_I knew that girl could have beaten me, but for some reason she didn't want to._

_I raked the sweaty hair out of my eyes and saw her slip away, her hair radiant, a small sunbeam that was quickly obscured by cloud._

* * *

"Reaping recaps are on!" A voice trills. Fuchsia bloated lips are turned upward in an obnoxious smile. Everyone gravitates towards the T.V. The merchant girl has a notebook in her lap and pencil ready in her hand, watching attentively. When District One comes on, she starts writing vigorously.

I can't help myself. I look over her shoulder. She's written- _District One: Rubi Winterchild. Strong. Doesn't cry when name is called. Looks eager to start killing._

I sink back into the couch. The little stinker's writing down notes on every tribute. Maybe I have misjudged her. Maybe she _does _have a chance.

When the reaping is finally done and the television turns to a news story about district thirteen, the girl moves next to me. She points at the screen, where a news reporter is standing next to the rubble which used to be District Thirteen's Justice Building. "Watch," she whispers. I follow the line of her finger up to a corner of the screen. Just as they begin to cut out of the story, I see a black and white blur. Or at least I _think _I see it. I turn to the girl for an explanation, but she's turned away from me, seeming to study her list of tributes with deep concentration.

People begin to disperse for bed. Soon it's only her and me. She's still scribbling on that damn notebook of hers.

"Hey," I say.

Her head jerks up. "What?" She sounds irritable and preoccupied.

I wanted to ask her why she didn't choose to win that race on that long-ago day, but different words come out instead. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Ivy," she says indifferently, and leaning back on a soft green pillow, she returns to studying her notebook.


	6. Lay Down Your Head

here is the place where i love maysilee by wordswithwind

* * *

_Deep in the meadow_

_Under the willow_

_A bed of grass_

A soft green pillow

_**Lay down your head**_

_And close your sleepy eyes_

_When again it's morning the sun will rise_

_Here it's safe_

_Here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet_

_And tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place_

_Where I love you_

-Suzanne Collins, "Deep in the Meadow" The Hunger Games

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**5) LAY DOWN YOUR HEAD**

* * *

AFTER HAYMITCH LEFT, instead of thinking about dying or perhaps more impending issues like the horrid coal miner outfit I will have to wear when I get to the Capital, I couldn't stop thinking about what a jerk he was. One moment, punching me in the jaw. The next, complimenting me on my running abilities. Really? He gives me a headache.

I went to my room and crawled underneath the covers without bothering to change. (Frankly, it's something I would do all the time if it weren't for an admonishing mother nearby.) I sit and wait for the tears to come, but my eyes are strangely dry. Sleepiness doesn't come either, and the loud noises during the night don't help at all. It sounds like someone's stampeding down the hallway, and I hear loud breath. But when I finally get up in exasperation and wrench open the door, there's no one there. I finally give up and take some of Rosianna's Maypop.

Even with the Maypop, I am very tired the next morning, and dousing myself with cold water in the shower doesn't help.

Stumbling to the breakfast table, I glance blearily out of the window and jolt in surprise, accidently knocking over my glass of orange juice. There's _mountains _out there-and not gentle rolling slopes like at home, but _mountains_ with tall, sheer sides and imposing faces and-

"Is that _snow _on the top?" I gasp.

Haymitch smirks. "Yes, sweetheart, those are _mountains _with _snow_." He sounds like he's trying to explain something to a three year old.

"No need to act so superior; you haven't seen them either until now," I retort. He shrugs. I run a stiff arm over my sleep-leadened eyelids and yawn.

"Get a good night's sleep?" Fuchsia chirps happily. She sweeps into the seat beside me, buttering a piece of toast with such enthusiasm that I stare at her with amazement.

"Not really," I admit. "It was so noisy, like something was walking around, purposely trying to bump into things-"

Haymitch's mouth twitches.

"What, you think it's funny I didn't get any sleep last night?" I know it's dangerous to poke fights with Haymitch, but I'm in a bad mood and can't help myself.

Haymitch doesn't answer me. Instead, he stands up and goes to the window. The Capitol buildings are in view in the distance, the speed of the train rapidly bringing us closer. Within a matter of seconds we've drawn level with the special tribute train station. Bright light pours in from outside, where a loud crowd swarms around the train, yelling and cheering and some of the ladies crying with happiness at seeing us-their bloody entertainment. Haymitch gives the crowd a smile, a smile so arrogant it is purely Haymitch, a smile that somehow displays all his hate and disgust he has for the crowd while still being insanely charming. I stand beside him and smile also, and even wave, but no one looks at me. All eyes are on him, magnetized by his insane grin.

_Of course _I think bitterly. _Who cares about little, boring old Maysilee? _I mop up the spilt orange juice and suddenly realize my life is also a complete mess. It's only by looking at the mountains that I can forget where I am, ironically enough. Strangely, their high impenetrable slopes make me feel safe.

* * *

I'm taken to a place called the Remake Center, and let's just say it's horrible and I'm glad I never have to go there again. The dirty coal miner's outfit they give me to wear is even more horrible, but it reminds me of home so I don't hate it as much as I thought I would.

"Maysilee Donner?" Gilgara, my disgusting stylist with earlobes down to her shoulders and a large tattoo of a past victor covering half of her body, beckons me with one shockingly red fingernail. "President Snow requests a word with you."

Everything slows down for a moment. The words take a moment to process. Suddenly my blood starts to scream and slosh inside me frantically and my ears start to ring. A headache makes itself known and the world swims with dots before my eyes. I press my fingers to my eyelids and whisper into them, "I don't feel so good."

"Here, take this." Gilgara hands me a pill. Maybe her expression is meant to be kind, but her grotesquely stretched mouth doesn't give the impression of a smile. My stomach lurches unexpectedly. I put the pill in my mouth only to choke on it and immediately spit it out. I doubt the pill will give me witty things to say to President Snow anyway.

Gilgara leads me into a round circular room with glass on all sides, beautiful views of the Capital's pristine white buildings and cold glistening mountains contrasting with the dark storm engulfing my heart. I sit down at a table right next to the window and turn to face President Snow.

He gives me a bland smile. "Maysilee Donner, is it not?"

I nod, even though I know he already knows my name and didn't even need to ask.

He leans forward; I'm hit with a strong, putrid smell. It seems to be coming from the blood red rose on his lapel. I choke. "I've a bone to pick with you, Maysilee."

I gulp. Considering where I'll be going in a week, that wasn't exactly the most tactful idiom to use. "What is it?" My voice sounds wheezy and breathless.

"I think you already know."

I stare at my smudged, dirty miner's boots. He's right. I _do_ already know. But I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about it.

"All I ask, Miss Maysilee, is that you will keep your mouth shut, or there will be very serious consequences. I have, of course, already contacted your mother on this..._matter _some years ago, but I thought it needed to be revisited." His voice is firm and detached, as if he gives this speech to every tribute before they do the Victory Parade. Like it is routine.

I nod my head again mutely, not meeting his eyes. He gets up and makes for the doorway.

I suddenly blurt, "Isn't getting killed in the area-isn't that enough?"

He regards me gravely. "I'm afraid not," he says. With a whoosh of fabric and the slam of a door he is gone. I contemplate the mountains' grim faces without hope.

* * *

Soon afterwards I make my way down to the lowest level of the Remake Center where we will start the parade. Weaving through the horses and dodging surly-faced tributes, I finally find District Twelve's chariot at the end. I'm still so white-faced that Haymitch's asks if I've seen a ghost, sarcastically, of course.

"Shut up," I say with such venom that the bastard actually _does _shut up.

We begin the parade, everyone else looking fairly decent and some even dazzling while we look like we played in mud before coming here. Haymitch watches the exuberant crowd throwing flowers at District Eleven in front of us, his mouth pressed in a thin line.

"Let's do something," he mouths. I pretend to ignore him.

He jabs my shoulder hard with his fist. "I _said, _let's do something!"

I give up. "What?"

He links arms with me. "Act like a team."

"What? No!" I try to wiggle out of his grasp. "What are you doing?"

But Haymitch doesn't answer. He raises his fist over his head and bares his teeth, as though he is already the victor and exalting over his kills. He grabs my arm. "Raise it up too!" he shouts, trying to be heard over the crowd. I glare at him and reluctantly do as he says.

Our brave show of unity and strength even in our dreadful costumes wins a few people over. I catch a rose and raise it above my head in a triumphant pose, but inside I'm still churning. President Snow's last words replay through my mind _I'm afraid not. I'm afraid not. I'm afraid not. _My smile is cold and stiff, the applause dim in my ears. He doesn't have to tell me what he means. I know. He means that if I fail to keep my mouth shut about my mother's secret, he is going to kill her. And possibly my whole family. And maybe even my friends. I think of Rosianna and her book, which is currently lying inside the Remake Center, the careful handwritten words, the intricate drawings. For a moment I feel like I've lost myself, like I'm falling into a big abyss of oblivion, and waver, my knees buckling. Haymitch pulls me back up forcefully, still grinning wickedly at the crowd.

After it's over, and I am blissfully released from the eyes of all of Panem, Haymitch turns away without looking at me and strides to the room marked _Male Tribute Two: District Twelve. _I enter the room marked _Female Tribute Two: District Twelve, _and flop into bed, staring at my notebook where I have marked the names of all the tributes going into the arena next week. _Rubi Winterchild. Soni Winterchild. Gil Berk. Lanni Ganner. Milljohn Uhannason. Yabu Nifger. _And the list goes on. Feeling sick, I flip off the light, but a strange white screen across the room keeps buzzing and glowing. When I go to it to try and turn it off, I read the following:

**Killu Jillison**_**: **_The tributes were so cute!

**Galla Paine: **Oh dear, I just spilled my drink! :(

**Hanner Hunger: **Are you going to get a tattoo of that Abernathy kid?

**Killy Jillison: **Totally!

**Hanner Hunger: **I know! I'm getting it right now!

**Killy Jillison: **Where?

**Hanner Hunger: **My right leg! :P

**Galla Paine: **O, I can't wait for the games to start!

I suppose the contraption is for the Capital people wanting to keep up on each other's business, although if they have all the time in the world, why not meet in person? Angrily, I pound on the screen, trying to turn it off, pushing random buttons (so far, I've learned one thing from the Capital: buttons make things do stuff) but it's hopeless. Groaning, I turn over and stuff my pillow over my head, wishing it was morning already.

* * *

When I wake in the morning, I am sullen and sulky. Even the glorious view of sun glistening on snow-capped peaks doesn't help; their beauty annoys me. Why should a spoiled population get to enjoy special scenery on top of everything else?

Fuchsia walks in, also looking grumpy, muttering under her breath.

"What's wrong?" I ask, nursing a chocolate smoothie. I'm going to regret this later.

"Nothing," Fuchsia says with false cheeriness, popping a pill into her mouth and attempting her usual carefree smile.

"She's upset about missing the parties last night," Haymitch says, rolling his eyes. "She can't go because she's bound to her duty of being our escort and sponsor-finder-but I'd be surprised if she manages to dig up any sponsors for you, Ivy."

I choose to ignore that comment. "You probably get parties all the time. What's the big deal with missing _one_?"

Fuchsia rounds on me, face flushed. "It wasn't _just _a party! It was a _very _important gathering at Tia's mansion for the birthday of Ren Jewell."

"Who?" I say obliviously.

"Ren Jewell," says Fuchsia, appalled. "The victor of the eighth hunger games, killed his opponents by sneaking up on them while they slept and cutting off their circulation. He killed Hinnu from District Five, Glisten from District One, Wheat from District Eleven-"

"Stop," I say, "Just stop." I am flabbergasted that with the new Fiftieth Hunger Games approaching, promising to be even more "exciting" with forty-eight players, people are still looking back at past games. _Do they celebrate every victor's birthday? _I wonder. I push my chocolate smoothie away, suddenly finding it hard to keep down.

Even harder to suppress, however, is my feelings, which uncurl inside me like some type of vicious dragon. I wander down to the Training Center after breakfast in a haze of grumpy annoyance and anger. I barely hear the instructions and when we are told to disperse, I stand there, confused and too tired to make my limbs move. In a vague way I realize I'm disappointing my mother-she would have wanted me to be strong and have a clear mind to accomplish my task. But what is my task? Become victor? With Haymitch being so unattainable as an ally, I know that will never happen.

The lady who gave the instructions walks over to me and says kindly, "Why don't you go join the others? Or if you like, there's a pool over on east side of the gym. Just make sure to come back for lunch in the cafeteria." She smiles encouragingly at me and walks away. _Who are these people who act like they're concerned about me and then lock me in an arena to kill me? _I wonder blearily. Seeking to escape the gym where at least half a dozen burly-looking boys are sizing me up and finding me lacking, I walk toward the sign which reads SWIMMING POOL - I immediately enter a hot, steaming room and am given a plain black bathing suit which reads CAPITOL TRIBUTE near the top. I then approach the water and stare down at it. I don't know how to swim, but how hard could it be, really? Just wave your legs and arms about, probably. I jump in.

The water consumes me, attacking me. Water is pushed down my throat, through my eyes, my ears. It rushes inside my lungs and I choke, fighting back, but I'm not strong enough. It feels like someone's trying to suffocate me-

And someone is. More than someone, actually, _someones. _I see legs and arms and a hand claps around my mouth. They are trying to drown me.

Just as suddenly as it happens, however, it stops. A supervisor is madly blowing a whistle and screaming at the boys and girls who attacked me, reminding them they are not to attack another tribute before the arena. I am dragged out by Capital attendants, and sobbing for breath, am led away. Sharp laughter from behind me stings my water-logged ears. My eyes are blurred from the pool water-or is it tears? I see an indistinct shape ahead of me. It turns away. _Haymitch?_

I am put down on something warm and soft, and hear voices.

"There now," A soft voice says. "Lay down your head and we'll get you some pain meds…"

"Is she alright?" High-pitched squeak. Fuchsia.

"She's fine," A Capital attendant says. "She's been experiencing hostility from other tributes and possibly has slight mental insanity. She should be ready to continue training tomorrow."

"Excellent." Monica's cool, controlled voice seems out of place. She does not seem to realize what has happened. I, the tribute she was trusting to be a success, am failing her.

_Slight mental insanity? _I wonder. _Great Panem, really? _You'd _be having 'slight mental insanity' too if you were me-the girl who has a secret that could turn Panem into a ruin, the girl who's going to kill people, and the girl's who guaranteed to a bloody death in the most horrible sport of all time. I do not have a mental disease, thank you very much. I just have to deal with things you wouldn't think of dreaming about in a million years! So leave me alone, leave me alone, LEAVE ME ALONE. _

Their voices fade, and exhausted from my mental tirade, I fall into oblivion. It's preferable to the nightmare I call reality. In fact, I welcome it with open arms.


	7. Close Your Sleepy Eyes

**This chapter contains a double POV. **

* * *

here is the place where i love maysilee by wordswithwind

* * *

_Deep in the meadow_

_Under the willow_

_A bed of grass_

A soft green pillow

_Lay down your head_

_**And close your sleepy eyes**_

_When again it's morning the sun will rise_

_Here it's safe_

_Here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet_

_And tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place_

_Where I love you_

-Suzanne Collins, "Deep in the Meadow" The Hunger Games

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**6) Close Your Sleepy Eyes**

* * *

WHEN I FIRST see Ivy, I just about get a heart attack. She's soaked and immobile, carried in a Capitol attendant's arms. She looks _dead. _But then I see her take a rattled breath and realize the truth: She jumped in the pool without knowing how to swim.

_How daft can she get? _I think as she's carried away in plain view of everyone. Now she'll be marked a target. Now she will have no chance in the games, not unless she does something quick. Even the small twelve year old, the youngest in this year's pool of tributes, is looking relieved, like she knows she stands more chance than at least one tribute. I turn back to my ax-throwing and grimace gleefully, remembering her words on the car to the train _If you were willing to be allies...I'm a quick learner… _

_Yeah right, _I think, another one of my axes hitting the dummy so hard it splits and some of the stuffing falls out. I glance around and see if anyone is impressed. Nobody is looking at me except the twelve-year-old, and I definitely don't want her as an ally, even if she's better than Ivy. What I was really hoping to attract is the Career's attention, but they cluster in a corner, still too absorbed in laughing over Ivy to notice me. A faint sliver of annoyance shoots through me: Why are they looking so pleased with themselves? And then their voices waft over and I hear their words:

"Did you see her face after we half drowned her? She was _crying, _poor thing." The girl, a burly giant of an eighteen-year-old, is grinning. A pretty good evil grin, actually. I'm a bit put out.

"Aw, Rubi, it's a pity the attendant saw us. She wouldn't have lasted a second longer." A boy a head shorter than Rubi looks up at her admiringly. The other careers are gathered in a circle around Rubi, attracted to her like hungry Seam kids around a piece of stale, tasteless bread made from tesserae grain. They obviously regard her as their hero, their mascot, their leader. I can tell Rubi is going to be my main opponent here. She's dangerous and sees bullying weaker tributes as fun, even if she could get punished for it. I don't like her, but I don't want her to one of the ones bullied, and being part of her pack could very well save my life. But how do I get her to take note of me?

I think of throwing more axes with deadly accuracy so she'll see I'm a valuable tribute. But Rubi doesn't seem to work that way. She would realize I have the potential to be her competitor, and I don't think she'd like that. She likes control, and that means a lot of mindless minions to carry out her work and adore her without question. So I head over to the group, laughing along with them and trying to get close to Rubi so I can give her some glowing praise over her defeat of Ivy. She notices my loud laughter and barks, "What's your name, coalboy?"

_She knows I come from District Twelve _I think. _I have to make her forget that._

"That can't possibly matter, Rubi," I say.

"Why are you here?" she questions severely.

I phrase the answer carefully in my head. This will be the difference between her liking me and her detesting me.

"I think you were very clever and brave just now, disabling a tribute before the games. I just wanted to compliment you." I put on my most alluring wins her over completely.

"Of course-I was brilliant! Why don't you join us at lunch?"

"I'd be honored," I say seriously, and give a sweeping bow. The others look at me dubiously, but Rubi just laughs. For a moment I wonder if I might be overdoing it and look around to see if anyone realizes my act, but everyone's eyes are suddenly fastened on Rubi. My chest does a weird spasm from trying not to laugh as I follow them to the cafeteria. They are a bunch of dorks, but I'm willing to play along if it means the difference between my life and death. Of course, once the numbers get down I'll have to make a run for it, but that won't be for a while with twice the usual amount of potential victims running around. For once I eat the foul little Capitol cheeses on their foul little Capitol crackers without wanting to barf. They're part of a meal the Capitol calls a "snack", a meal where you're not really hungry but you eat anyway. I mean, what is the _point _of _that? _

Nevertheless, after a hard afternoon of grueling training, I begin to feel the effects and start to wish for some sort of snack. Heading back to the personal dining room for District Twelve tributes, I sit at the table to find the boy tribute already there. Strange, I _still _can't remember his name…

"Well, I-forgot-your-name, do you still want to punch me now? I'm sitting right here, nothing to stop you…"

The boy's eyes widen in alarm. Coward. He saw me at the punching bag today and knows now my relative smallness does not keep me from being strong. I grin at him, amused.

"You're going down, boy," I inform him.

Luckily (for him) Monica and Fuchsia come in and sit down, along with the girl tribute, who avoids catching my eye. Now I know that they both know how dangerous I am. I feel elated.

"So, is dear Ivy out of the game?" I ask Monica.

Her brow furrows. "Who?"

"Ivy," I say impatiently.

"Don't you mean Maysilee?"

"Maysilee?" I question, confused.

"Yes, Maysilee," says Monica, raising her eyebrows. "Don't tell me you didn't know her name!"

"Of course," I say casually, and take a sip of bubbly stuff the Capitol people call 'soda'. Inside, however, I feel like someone's clawed me. Why did she not tell me her real name? How could I have been so oblivious to it this whole time? Suddenly it occurs to me that she may have more than one secret. That makes me angry.

"What's her last name?" I say, trying and failing at sounding nonchalant.

"Why do _you _want to know?" The girl tribute asks.

I shrug.

"It's Donner."

"Dinner?" I say, perking up.

She rolls her eyes. "You're hopeless. I said _Donner. _As in, her last name?"

I gesture at the door, where an Avox is coming through, bearing a tray. "Well, it's dinner, too." Suddenly, my hand freezes in midair, still pointed toward the door. All previous thoughts are wiped from my mind.

Right.

"Haymitch?" says Monica worriedly.

There.

"Haymitch, what's wrong?"

Is.

"Haymitch, you're freaking us out!"

My.

"Is this one of your jokes?"

Mother.

My mother is standing in front of me, bearing a tray. She sets it down on the table, avoiding my eyes, and quickly retreats from the room. I know this happens, but I don't see it. For me everything stopped the moment I saw her, like a movie on pause. The image of her bearing a tray, demure and servant-like in plain and simple clothes, with bare, callused feet, haunts my brain and I don't see anything else. I don't feel anything else. Nothing else matters.

And I remember. My brother was the only one who said goodbye. Not my mother. How could I have forgotten that? How could I?

My voice enters my brain, urgent, insisting.

"_You'll take care of mom for me."_

I remember now. His expression was suddenly panic-stricken. He had shaken his head.

"_Jeye?" I had said. "Jeye! What's wrong?"_

But he had only shaken his head.

And with that memory, it all comes together: My being absent for the reaping while they picked my name, my brother's shake of his head, refusing to tell me what was wrong, my mother here, an Avox.

She is an Avox because of me. Because of my tardiness for the reaping. Because of the fact that I'm a tribute and the Capitol wants to punish me too, by causing me emotional trauma. They make my mother be so close to me, yet so far away. They have given me the shell of my mother, to show their power, their absolute control. They are sending me a message: _If you rebel again, you will have serious consequences._

I flinch; Monica's been prodding me in the back. "Pass the salad, Haymitch."

I realize with shock that I've allowed my emotions to get the better of me, which I never have let happen for as long as I can remember. So I lock them away to be looked at later and place an effective mask over my face. At first we eat so fast and hard no one questions me, but after a while the girl tribute finds enough breath to gasp through her mashed potatoes: "Why were you staring at an Avox like that?" Her eyes are narrowed.

I fasten my perfect smirk to to my face, to add emphasis and believability to my words. "Come on, you have to admit she's quite attractive...took my breath away for a moment…"

The girl tribute looks like she's trying to fight down a smile, in spite of the fact we'll be bitter enemies several days from now. I don't mind. I love to charm people.

Usually.

I stand up and make my best and easiest excuse for retreating: "I need to relieve myself."

Fuchsia looks at me, obviously comforted. Once on the train ride here I had made the mistake of saying to her, "I need to poop," and she had exploded and told me that was not proper language. So now I need to say _relieve myself _instead.

_Well_, I think dismally as I walk down the hallway towards the elevator. _I didn't completely lie. After all, I do need to get relief for myself. _

But I know the truth: With my mother an Avox, I'll probably never feel relief again.

* * *

I try to fall asleep early, because I'm so tired of being alive and I just want the illusion that I'm dead, even if it's only for eight hours. Surprisingly, sleep does not elude me. The moment I close my sleepy eyes I'm off. I guess I was just so exhausted I couldn't help it.

However, several hours later I awake, standing in front of the elevator that leads down to the other district tribute's floors and the training center. _Crap _I think. _I've sleepwalked. _

Since I usually sleepwalk only when I'm very stressed, this isn't good news. Because I'm up, though, I figure I might as well wander around for a bit. Hitting the number one to go to the basement level, I whoosh downward. The elevator is made out of glass, so I can see the Capitol, all lit up in front of me. Do these people _ever _sleep?

In contrast to the light of the city, the training center is frightfully dark (if you're afraid of the dark, that is, which I'm not). There's only one light at the far end of the gym, and I make my way toward it, careful to maneuver my way through the equipment so I don't get some kind of injury I'll have to explain in the morning.

Finally I reach the light. Just beyond there's the door to the pool, which stands open. A soft square glow falls over my shoes. I head toward the light, not knowing exactly why I am going to the pool in the middle of the night. It's not like I even want to swim.

The moment I enter, I suck in my breath sharply. There's a shadow at the other side of the pool-someone's already here.

* * *

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There's a shadow at the other end of the pool. Jerking involuntarily, I splash water on myself. For the past hour I have been trying to get used to the water, dipping my feet in, then my ankles, and then, finally, my knees. That's when I chickened out. Remembering this morning, I got frantic. What if there's water in the arena-what would I do? The thought had never occurred to me before, and I wondered how I could have overlooked it. There have been tributes who have died from not knowing how to tread water or swim for extended periods of time, and if you truly want to be ready for the games, swimming is a necessary skill.

Despite the fact that I know I will die anyways, I couldn't help coming down here. The glow of the pool's lights through the aquamarine water soothes me. In fact, I was almost dozing- before that person crept in without my noticing, that is.

My heart pounds. Is it the Careers, come to finish me off when the Capitol attendants aren't supervising? But no-the figure steps into the light, and I see it's Haymitch. I relax, though I'm not sure why. Far from being my ally and farther from being my friend, he seems to have become more of an enemy of late.

Apparently he has decided to pursue the aspiration of being my enemy because he scowls. "Why are you down here this late?"

"I could ask the same of you," I reply coolly.

He doesn't answer but remains there, staring at me. Somehow, though, I get the idea that his thoughts are elsewhere.

He comes to himself and sits down beside me. In the light of the pool I see his face is drawn out and exhausted, baggy lids under his eyes showing his stress and exhaustion. Frankly, it surprises me he's affected at all by what's happening around us. He usually seems so tough. Though that's absurd. It's the Hunger Games.

"Why didn't you tell me your real name was Maysilee?" he asks. The usual venom that usually punctuates his words is strangely absent. I look at him worriedly. A Haymitch that is not sarcastic and cruel is a Haymitch I've never met before.

I decide to take advantage of his lack of Haymitchness and say slyly, "I'll tell you if you teach me how to swim."

He rolls his eyes, not with his usual elegance but instead with tired annoyance. "You're asking me to do the impossible."

"No I'm not." I surprise myself by grinning. "Proceed, Teacher Haymitch."

"Me, a teacher? _That _would be a nightmare."

We both laugh. Our laughter rings off the walls and we abruptly stop.

"I'm not getting in the water," Haymitch says, breaking the awkward silence. He's stony-faced again.

I fling my towel off and slip tentatively into the water. The water laps around my waist. Standing there, tense, I say, "Now what?"

"Now, try putting your head underwater..."

I lower my head slowly into the pool. The water bites my face; it rushes into my ears, eyes, nose. I come up sputtering. "Um...I-I d-don't real-ly, um, know, ah-" I cough, spitting out pool water.

"Relax, sweetheart." He sits down on a beach chair, and leaning back and closing his eyes, says, "You have to breathe out through your nose, keep your eyes closed, and keep calm under water. Now, to swim, just wave your arms, kick your legs, and make sure to breathe. That's all there is to it."

I grit my teeth. "Haymitch-"

He waves me away, eyes still closed. "I'm here to watch you. Don't worry."

I smirk. _He's here to watch me. _Yeah right. His eyes are still closed.

I begin to awkwardly wave my limbs, conscious of how utterly hopeless I am in swimming. Crap. The most I'll be able to do in an hour is sink to the bottom of the pool successfully. I dart a glance at Haymitch. His eyes are open and he's grinning evilly.

"Looks like you need some help." He jumps in and begins to swim, moving his limbs in a regular, even pattern up the length of the pool to the other side and then back. He stops in front of me, not even breathing heavily.

"What are you waiting for?" There's a twinkle in his eye.

I smile back and begin to swim, awkwardly it's true, but with Haymitch's coaching I soon become more confident. Suddenly the water seems like my friend, washing away all the worries that plague me day and night, making me feel clean and free. When I step out an hour later, I'm grinning so hard it hurts and I can't stop. Haymitch's grin, so infectious when he saw me swimming for the first time, has disappeared. A heavy expression has settled across it, and he stands on the edge of the pool as though lost.

"Haymitch?" I say tentatively. He doesn't answer.

I towel off my hair, feeling vaguely disappointed. We had been so happy, laughing and smiling in the pool, and I had thought of asking if we could be allies again. But he seems to have closed off. His expression makes me wonder if maybe there's something plaguing him that I don't know about, if maybe he has a secret too.

* * *

_A couple days after Haymitch told the class about mockingjays, we had the Annual Capitol Exam. A lady came all the way from the Capitol to survey us. She handed out a thick packet of paper. Most people gaped in awe, fingering the paper in disbelief. She looked over her glasses severely, plainly disapproving of all of us. We ducked our heads and began feverishly circling answers._

_The test was not hard. It was just a bunch of simple questions that the Capitol asked to every child of Panem to make sure they were completely brainwashed into thinking the Capitol was their savior. Stuff like: What is the reason for the Hunger Games? Why does the Hunger Games help unify Panem? And the last question-TRUE or FALSE: You will unite with President Snow to ensure a bright and beautiful future for all the citizens of Panem._

_I stared at that question. My grip on the pencil was slippery with sweat. I gripped it harder, so hard it hurt. My heart was doing backflips in my chest; I could hear the blood pumping in my ears._

"_Finish up," said the brisk voice of the Capitol lady. She stood, straight and tall, at the center of the classroom, clasping her perfectly manicured hands in front of her._

_I bit my lip. Coming to a decision, I used the classic cheating trick for true or false questions: Scrawling a T with a little, tiny stub of a line coming off from under its top. It looks like a T and it looks like a F. I gazed at it disparagingly. I was too much of a coward to put a flat-out F. I knew I could very well get executed for that. So I just made my little line a _little _bit longer. _

_It came to no surprise to me when a few days later I was told to come to the square to be put in the stocks. What did surprise me was that Haymitch was there._

_We were put in the stocks together. All of District Twelve was there to witness the event. After the lecture from a Peacekeeper, warning us of the consequences of disobedience, we were left on our own. We stood there together, not talking, all afternoon. It came to me that Haymitch was probably put in the stocks due to telling the class about mockingjays. Somehow, it made me feel stronger. Neither of us said a word, yet when we were finally released at sundown a bond was between us. We had suffered together. We had suffered for _rebelling _together. It was then, as I was walking home in the twilight, that I began to wonder if I should tell him my secret._

* * *

Now however, I know that will never happen. We are in the games; we are enemies. He hates me. Even if we _were _friends, I couldn't tell him because the Capitol is always monitoring us. They could be watching even now. The thought makes me feel cold. I draw the towel closer about myself.

"Let's go," I say to Haymitch.

He nods absentmindedly, leading the way out of the pool to the gym and then to the hallway. We're heading down the hallway to the elevator when a figure leaps out of the darkness and strangles Haymitch with alarming rapidity.

He struggles, but he is no match for Rubi Winterchild. She has him in a vice. "What are you doing out here so late, Haymitch?"

He grunts. Rubi casts a quick glance into the shadows and suddenly her mismatched eyes narrow in understanding: one is blue and the other brown. I know she's seen me.

"Hanging out with the weakest tribute, Haymitch?" she whispers dangerously. "Helping her swim, maybe?" Her shrewd eyes take in Haymitch's wet clothes and my swimsuit. "You've betrayed me, you bastard." She lungs forward and grips his arm with hers, her muscles rippling across the surface. The hatred is palpable in her eyes; lacerating his face with her glare. They're sharp and bright like deadly meteorites across an endless black sky.

Just then, however, an alarm starts beeping. I suppose there's a camera somewhere near that has watched everything that has happened. Realizing Capitol attendants must be on their way to break up the fight, Rubi releases Haymitch, breathing heavily. "Nobody betrays me without getting a consequence. I will kill you in the arena if it's the last thing I do," she warns. Then, turning, she sprints up the hallway towards the elevators, the alarm still blaring behind her.

* * *

**Expect next update a long time from now. :( I hope this chapter had you on the edge of your seats! Any comments or thoughts will be read and appreciated. **

**Thanks to my reviewer, Ibbonray.**


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